Molly's eyes flicked from the corpse on the floor back to Mr. Holmes once more. He squinted at her as if pondering something before sighing noisily and reaching into his pocket. He rubbed his lips together, poked the tip of a curved pipe between them and reached into his pocket again. Her own lips felt tight as she fought against gravity pulling them down. He looked bored as he dipped his head, struck a match and brought it to the bowl. A few puffs later, he blinked slowly with a dark, derisive gaze. Smoke curled upwards around his cheeks, dissipating towards the ceiling. Its pungent aroma filled her nostrils. Normally, she detested the smell of smoke but whatever tobacco he used had an exotic, spiced note to it - not unlike the man himself.

She cursed her libidinous inclinations where he was concerned. In so many ways, he infuriated her yet she could find no fault in his appeal. That in and of itself spelled trouble. Why on earth had she agreed to work with him?

"So, do you have anything to contribute or are you simply here as decoration?" He murmured in a tone that vibrated through her like a tuning fork, a stream of smoke jetted from his nostrils.

Molly was about to reply but caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked down to where Dr. Watson crouched next to the body. His head came up and his brow twisted in confusion. He snapped his head sideways as he assessed his consulting detective companion. He then looked at Molly and back at Mr. Holmes again as if trying to sort something out. Then he glanced up at Inspector Lestrade with large eyes full of disbelief. A silent exchange went between them. Lestrade smirked and shrugged. Finally, Molly cleared her throat. These men were maddening with their secret communications.

"Y-You say you believe a woman is responsible for this?" She asked. "What are your reasons?"

Mr. Holmes crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. His pipe bobbed in his mouth as he spoke.

"It is quite obvious," he drawled. "He was stabbed in the back, hardly something a man would do. No, that kind of subversiveness in the commission of a crime is indicative of a woman being responsible."

Molly's nose wrinkled. Hot breaths poured from her nostrils. His opinion of her gender was abhorrent. He pushed himself from the wall and stepped towards her with constricted eyes. A wrinkle formed above his heavy brow.

"You disagree?" He asked in a challenging tone.

She lifted her chin. "With your conclusion? No. Your reasoning, however . . . well, let us just say I thought you of all people might be more insightful about my sex."

Dr. Watson snorted. Lestrade chuckled. Mr. Holmes plucked the pipe from his mouth and glowered at her in disbelief. Molly flushed under his gaze. Warmth spread across her chest and up her neck. Oh, Lord, she had done it this time. What was she thinking insulting him in such a manner? He looked ready to strike back with his own vitrol like a cornered cobra.

"Yet you agree with me that it was a woman who stabbed this man in the back," he muttered. "I find your statement rather paradoxical."

Molly bit her lip against the argument she wanted to unleash on him. Instead, she took a deep breath and faced Dr. Watson.

"Erm, Doctor, excuse me. Might I ask you to step aside a moment?"

Dr. Watson smiled and nodded eagerly. He hauled himself to his feet and then he and Inspector Lestrade vacated the spot next to the corpse and moved to stand near his feet. Molly paused a moment as she gazed down at the poor soul with the poker protruding from his back. Then she gathered her skirts and kneeled before lying down next to the dead man. She had to press her back against the wall of the narrow hall so as not to touch any part of the body.

"What the hell are you doing, Miss Hooper?" Mr. Holmes ground out.

Molly tilted her chin back as she stretched out her legs and looked at him upside down. "Gaining perspective."

His lips compressed in a thin line. With a shrug, she returned her attention to her corpse. Her nose was inches from the metal poker with its intricately twisted metal handle. She sniffed and detected a faint trace of flowers. She raised her hand up and mimicked a stabbing action. Then, she leaned forward and studied the wound. Finally, she returned to a sitting position. When she lifted her head to peer up at her companions, a hand was already extended in her direction. Long, elegant fingers twitched at her eye level. She glanced past them to Mr. Holmes. His eyes were as dark as ink wells with only a sliver of the pale blue of his irises highlighting his unfathomable pupils.

"I think that is quite enough, Miss Hooper," his deep baritone admonished.

Molly reached up to take his hand. Just before their fingers met, an arc of static electricity crackled between them. She swallowed a gasp, steeled her nerves and slid her hand up into his warm palm. She thought she felt his fingers quiver before he gripped her wrist firmly and tugged her to her feet. Her heart picked up its pace. He made her feel so small. His large hand enveloped half her arm and when she rose up to meet him, her neck strained in an effort to look up at him.

"Thank-you," She dipped her head.

"You are ludicrous," he muttered under his breath.

"Wh-What?" She breathed.

Again, he had that ability to make her forget the outside world. He seemed perturbed but there was something else . . . almost, admiration? She could not be certain.

"I said, you are-"

"Miss Hooper!" Dr. Watson cut in. "What did you conclude?"

Molly snapped from her reverie and snatched her hand back. Her face flared with heat.

"Erm, well," she stammered as she glanced at Dr. Watson's eager face. "I also think a woman is responsible for this death. Whomever culpable was short in stature, no taller than myself from the wound placement and its angle of entry. Also, the puncture is shallow so I might additionally conclude the murderer was not very strong. Since there are no children among the home's inhabitants, the balance of probabilities favors a female as the culprit."

Inspector Lestrade whooshed a breath of air from where he leaned on a door frame with crossed arms. "Oy, that is a bit more methodical determination, is it not, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hmph, elementary, I suppose," the large man replied gruffly.

"No, brilliant again!" Dr. Watson interjected as he bent over to look at the body once more. "Anything else?"

Molly looked shyly at Mr. Holmes. Even though he appeared irritated, he leaned forward as if waiting for her next revelation. She bowed her head.

"There is a kind of fine dust on the poker's handle, much like talcum but with a distinct perfume. I recognize the smell as coming from a common face powder for women."

Mr. Holmes' eyes bobbed up and down as he studied her face. Suddenly, she was not so sure she annoyed him at all. His expression was softer, more probative, as if he was attempting to memorize something. Finally, he returned his pipe to his lips and puffed on it again. He looked down a moment at the corpse.

"Well, Lestrade," his voice was low and even. "It seems we have learned all we need to from this dead man. I think he can be removed from this home now."

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "Alright, Mr. Holmes. I will send word after I see Miss Hooper home."

Mr. Holmes' head jerked up. "No! That is . . . there is no need for you to do both. I will see Miss Hooper back to her residence. She is my examiner, after all. I mean, no, she is mine . . . blast, I am responsible for her being here! Hell, there must be something wrong with this tobacco or the air in here or even a gas leak even. Let us leave this place."

Dr. Watson nodded and skipped forwards before stopping at the foot of the stairs. He turned with a quizzical look on his face. "Wait, would not your pipe have ignited any gas?"

Mr. Holmes growled and tugged at the cuffs of his great, dark brown overcoat. "Move your feet, Watson!"

Dr. Watson quickly disappeared up the stairs followed by a goofily grinning Lestrade. Molly gathered her skirts and trailed after them as Mr. Holmes dogged her steps. They met the butler in the front foyer where Lestrade informed him that he would be sending for one of his deputies to collect the corpse.

"I will go see if I can hail us a hack," Mr. Holmes mumbled curtly to Molly. "Please, wait here. I will be right back."

Molly tilted her head in acknowledgement then watched in confusion as Dr. Watson hurried after the detective and they disappeared out into the chilly night air.


"Holmes!"

Sherlock fumbled with the buttons of his coat as he strode quickly down the cobblestone sidewalk. He attempted to ignore John Watson but it proved futile.

"Holmes!"

"What!" He whirled and dumped what was left of his pipe in the gutter.

He looked towards the sky and watched a long stream of his breath disperse into the night sky. Even late at night, the city buzzed with mischief. He could hear the distant clatter of carriage wheels and the drunken murmur of patrons at a nearby gentlemen's club. Even these posh streets were never too far removed from the slithering underbelly of London. The beast thrived on vice. Vice! It was everywhere he looked, taking all shapes and forms. Steps approached and then stopped just to his left.

"You seem out of sorts, my friend," Watson observed.

Sherlock peeked at him out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Watson was one of the few people able to gauge his moods. However, he was always loathe to admit any weakness.

"I am quite well, Watson."

"Hmm."

Sherlock looked down at his friend and snorted. "You disagree?"

"No," he replied quickly, shaking his head as he stared straight ahead, "no, for I have no reference for your behavior. I have never seen you flustered."

"I am not flustered," Sherlock returned.

"Oh."

Dr. Watson peeked at him briefly then shrugged and kicked a pebble off the curb. He blinked several times with wide eyes as he gazed across the way. Sherlock's temper spiked.

"Do not 'Oh' me!"

He spun and resumed his march towards the next street where the hacks would be circling and awaiting the club to close its doors. Dr. Watson caught up, practically running to match his brisk pace.

"Fine, fine, but perhaps you would prefer me to escort Miss Hooper home."

Sherlock flipped up his collar. "I already declined Lestrade's offer. Why would I do any differently for yours?"

"Erm, yes, but I am married whereas he is not-"

The detective stopped abruptly and halted Watson's advance with his hand. He then poked his chest with his finger.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Watson slapped his hand away. His nose scrunched in annoyance.

"Holmes, it is quite obvious that the fair Miss Hooper has you discombobulated. I mean, I never would have believed it but I have never . . . ever . . . ever heard you speak of any woman the way you have spoken about her. I mean, you called her pretty and referred to her as decoration and . . . no, do not deny it," he shook his finger at Sherlock as he opened his mouth to refute him, "no! Do not deny it because you do not want me to further review your slips of the tongue."

Sherlock could see the deep shadows of Dr. Watson's resolve in his expression. He resented the concern he saw written there. He was Sherlock Holmes! No woman disconcerted him. His voice rose in anger as he responded to Watson's speculation.

"If it will alleviate your distress, then I will admit for your sake that I found myself confounded by being outwitted by a member of the weaker sex, but beyond that, you must not believe. I am not given to sentiment nor can a chit like Miss Hooper ever tempt me. She owes her wit to the teachings of a great doctor in Michael Stamford. She is useful but not a curiosity for me at all . . ."

It was only as his words echoed between the buildings did Sherlock realize that the subject of their discussion stood but a few yards away clutching her hat in her hands. Her lips were parted. Her face was as pale as the moon. Even in the darkness, he could see that her eyes were wide with shock. Her emotion struck him across the expanse. Inspector Lestrade stopped just beside her with a dour look on his face.

"The Butler asked us to leave," he muttered. "Guess we outlived our usefulness."

Miss Hooper fumbled with her hat and then lifted her chin and walked briskly past him.

"The hacks are this way, I presume?"

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen as he watched her delicate frame become rigid and she stiffly walked in the direction of the next street. A feeling he had never felt previous blossomed in his chest. It was uncomfortable and choked the breath from him. He could not be certain, but he might guess it was remorse if he didn't already know he was incapable of such a feeble disposition.

"Holmes?" Watson queried for the umpteenth instance that evening. "You look ill."

He shook his head and started after Miss Hooper.

"Indigestion, dear Watson."